the drive north
by Jess McIntosh
Summary: In 1867, the Curtis brothers join a trail drive North to sell their cattle
1. Chapter 1

The Drive North

Jess McIntosh

The Outsiders A/U Old West

S.E. Hinton owns the characters. I'm not making any money from this.

This universe is closed right now, thanks.

Chapter 1

"Hey Curtis! You ready to ride?"

Darrel Curtis looked up from checking his horse's hoof and nodded at the white haired old man sitting easily on a dancing Spanish gelding. Phillip Sheppard was the trail boss. A good man for the job, a former Texas Ranger who knew what orders to give and how to give them. Darrel loved the idea of having a boss.

"Yessir" Darrel answered, dropping the hoof. "Just about packed up. We'll meet you and the herd at Clearwater."

Sheppard touched the brim of his hat, and wheeled the dark bay horse around, leaving a dust cloud in his wake. It wasn't much past dawn, but the heat had all ready set in.

"Going to get me a horse like that" Darrel thought. "And pretty damn soon, too"

"Soda!" he yelled, taking his mind off that fancy horse and getting back to business. "Get your lazy butt over here!"

Darrel's younger brother Patrick, called "Sodacrackers" for his fondness for that species of hardtack, came running around the corner.

"Yeah?" the seventeen year old asked, pushing back his hat.

"You got the wagon ready? Everything packed?"

"Yeah. Ain't a whole to pack. You know that."

No matter what kind of rush was going on, Soda's Texas drawl slowed everything to a crawl, Darrel thought. But it was the only slow thing about him. Soda had more than his usual lop-sided grin on his face—Soda was a happy little cuss most of the time, and anxious to get back to being happy the rare times he wasn't—but the excitement of getting ready for the trail drive had him grinning from ear to ear, sleeping or waking.

Darrel couldn't help grinning back at him. He loved this brother dearly, but so did everyone who knew him. Soda Curtis was beautiful, in the healthy, radiant way of wild creatures, like an antelope, or a hawk; you felt better just by looking at him—and the fact that he was totally unaware of the effect he had on people only added to his charm.

His other brother, though...the youngest one...

"Where's Pony?" Darrel asked abruptly.

Soda shifted uneasily, then said "Sayin' good bye to the pond."

"Who's at the pond?"

"Didn't say he was sayin' good-be _at _the pond. Sayin' good-bye _to_ the pond."

"Oh" Darrel said, like he understood what the hell Soda was talking about. Ponyboy Curtis was an enigma to his oldest brother.

He was named Michael at birth, and Darrel had memories of the quiet, placid infant who seemed to ponder the world with big gray-green eyes, sucking two fingers and mulling things over in a comically solemn way for a baby.

That baby had crowed with delight, though, at his first contact with a horse, almost wiggling out of his father's arms, and his Pa, pleased with something he could understand about this thoughtful elf, his youngest, said "I reckon we got ourselves another pony boy."—

referring to Soda's all ready apparent devotion to horses—and unknowingly bestowed the nickname the boy would have the rest of his life.

In fact, it was Pony's and Soda's uncanny way with horses that netted them the much sought-after job of wranglers on this drive. Darrel couldn't help a smirk of pride that he himself was riding point. Phillip Sheppard had made all the job decisions, and made them on merit after watching the round-ups and branding.

His own grandson, Curly, was riding drag. Darrel snorted with laughter, remembering the young hot-head's reaction to _that _job decision.

Darrel turned and went through the small adobe house on his way to the back, where the wagon and the mules waited. He glanced around. The place hadn't held much before, and now it was stripped of anything useful.

The few cooking pots, tin plates and cups were packed, the hunting rifles and shotguns stowed; the worn blankets cleaned and folded; all in the wagon.

Darrel sighed. This was the only home he knew, and he was so glad to be leaving. He felt guilty. His last memories of his mother were here—the happy ones sometimes crowded out by the ones of her lingering death...the last memories of his father, too, as Pa had placed the responsibility for his younger brothers on Darrel's fifteen year old shoulders, before riding off to war.

A lot of the men around here had ridden off at that time. Most, like Shayne Curtis, did not come back. One exception to this, Phillip Sheppard, had declared he had never owned any slaves and wasn't going to get his head blown off so some other man could. Besides, he'd seen enough battle with the Mexicans and Commanche to know what it was like.

But Shayne Curtis had reacted to the battle call like a hound to a whistle...

Darrel shook off the memories, as he went out back.

He checked the harness of the mules, the rigging of the wagon,

then looked inside. With all their own gear stowed neatly to the side,

there was plenty of room This was going to be the second wagon on the trail, carrying bedrolls and supplies that didn't belong in the grub wagon. The Curtis's were being paid extra for the use of their wagon and mules.

Darrel picked up a clean feed sack he didn't remember being here before...it was too heavy, and as he peered inside he sighed. Might have known...

He pulled back out of the wagon just in time to see his youngest brother walking up, wiping his eyes, his paint pony ambling faithfully behind him.

"Pony" Darrel began, then noted the red eyes and thought to himself "oh lordy please don't let that be from saying good-bye to the pond."

Now that he thought about, Pony did spend alot of time at the place; not so much now, when he was old enough to help, but when he was a kid he was often found there—looking at bugs, as far as Darrel could tell, watching wild life, staring at clouds, dreaming God knew what.

Once, a five year old Pony had picked out one of the chickens and followed it around all day—to see what it was like to be a chicken, he explained to his incredulous family, as if _that_ was any kind of explanation.

He's damn lucky he didn't end up named ChickenBoy, Darrel thought grimly, looking at his scrawny brother.

Pony was small for his age, skinny as a rail, and as his clothes were usually patched together hand-me-downs from Soda, who got them from Darrel, they hung loosely on him, making him look even frailer.

He was as tough as a little whip of rawhide, Darrel knew, and could knock himself black and blue training a horse, herding cattle, without a whimper. But on the other hand, it was entirely possible he was bawling around from saying good-bye to the pond.

He's fourteen, Darrel thought, wearily, surely to God he's going to out-grow some of this nonsense.

"Pony"

"Yeah?"

"What's this?"

Darrel held up the heavy feed sack.

"You know there's no room for extras on this drive."

"That ain't extra! We got to have it!"

"_We_ got to have it or _you_ got to have it?"

Pony snatched the sack out of his brother's hand and clutched it to him. Inside was the family Bible—Darrel would have let him get away with that—but it was the complete works of Shakespeare, an illustrated volume of fairy tales, and a book of travels that caused trouble.

All the Curtis brothers knew each by heart, and Pony could recite pages.

"Aw, let him take it, Darry" Soda joined them. "Maybe we'll get bored some times an' people will want to hear something"

Soda had heard from Steve Randle that the trail got boring; Soda didn't believe that, but he didn't want to see those precious books pried out of Pony's arms.

"Okay" Darrel gave in, glad to be moving. "But if room's needed that's the first thing that goes."

Pony replaced the bag gently. Soda led up Darrel's big flea-bit gray and tied him to the back of the wagon. Darrel would drive the mules until they reached the small settlement of Clearwater, where a wagon driver would take over. Darrel would join with the other drovers; Pony and Soda reporting to the head wrangler.

"Well, boys, this is it." Darrel looked around. I'm glad to go, he thought, defiantly blinking back tears.

The small vegetable garden cooked in the sun, nobody had bothered to water it for days. No more weeding, no more hauling water, no more nagging the others to help. The last of the chickens had been plucked and eaten; no more trying to keep a coyote-proof chicken house, no more trying to round up the last straggler at night, or nag someone to do it. Nobody had told Darrel what hard work nagging was. No wonder Pa had ridden off to the war like he was going to a party.

But now the boys would have their own boss and someone else to ride their asses.

"You think we'll ever come back?" Pony said wistfully.

Darrel glanced at Soda and refrained from barking "No!"

"Maybe sometime" Soda said. He planned to, if only to sign on for another drive. He would miss home, but the open spaces looked better to him, always moving toward the next adventure.

He ruffled Pony's hair back, knocking his hat to hang by its strings.

"Let's ride, pard."

Soda swung onto his chestnut mustang, and cantered out ahead.

Darrell settled into the driver's seat, and slapped the reins at the mules.

"Ho!" he shouted, and the mules moved on.

Pony took a couple of running steps and vaulted onto his pony's rump, then into the saddle. He looked over his shoulder before galloping after Soda.

Darrel watch them go. It hadn't occurred to either of his brothers that after this drive they'd be relatively rich. Thanks to Darrel's constant vigilance on their cattle, always keeping up with the branding, never letting one stray get away, doing everything he could to insure the health of the herd, the Curtis brothers had the most beeves in the drive. Once they reached the stockyards of Kansas, they would be sharing a sizeable sum.

"Get Pony into a good school" Darrel thought. "Somewhere where book-learning is valuable, not useless. Put Soda's share in a bank—once he gets a taste of a drover's life he's not going to settle down for awhile."

Darrel tried again to think of what his own future might hold, but then, he could worry about that later. Right now he just sighed with relief.

"Free" thought Darrel.

"Yahoo!" Soda urged on his horse. "Tomorrow!" he thought.

Pony was the only one who glanced back, who thought: "Home"

10


	2. Drive North II

The Drive North

Jess McIntosh

The Outsiders A/U Old West

S.E. Hinton owns the characters. I'm not making any money from this.

This universe is closed right now, thanks.

Chapter 1

"Hey Curtis! You ready to ride?"

Darrel Curtis looked up from checking his horse's hoof and nodded at the white haired old man sitting easily on a dancing Spanish gelding. Phillip Sheppard was the trail boss. A good man for the job, a former Texas Ranger who knew what orders to give and how to give them. Darrel loved the idea of having a boss.

"Yessir" Darrel answered, dropping the hoof. "Just about packed up. We'll meet you and the herd at Clearwater."

Sheppard touched the brim of his hat, and wheeled the dark bay horse around, leaving a dust cloud in his wake. It wasn't much past dawn, but the heat had all ready set in.

"Going to get me a horse like that" Darrel thought. "And pretty damn soon, too"

"Soda!" he yelled, taking his mind off that fancy horse and getting back to business. "Get your lazy butt over here!"

Darrel's younger brother Patrick, called "Sodacrackers" for his fondness for that species of hardtack, came running around the corner.

"Yeah?" the seventeen year old asked, pushing back his hat.

"You got the wagon ready? Everything packed?"

"Yeah. Ain't a whole to pack. You know that."

No matter what kind of rush was going on, Soda's Texas drawl slowed everything to a crawl, Darrel thought. But it was the only slow thing about him. Soda had more than his usual lop-sided grin on his face—Soda was a happy little cuss most of the time, and anxious to get back to being happy the rare times he wasn't—but the excitement of getting ready for the trail drive had him grinning from ear to ear, sleeping or waking.

Darrel couldn't help grinning back at him. He loved this brother dearly, but so did everyone who knew him. Soda Curtis was beautiful, in the healthy, radiant way of wild creatures, like an antelope, or a hawk; you felt better just by looking at him—and the fact that he was totally unaware of the effect he had on people only added to his charm.

His other brother, though...the youngest one...

"Where's Pony?" Darrel asked abruptly.

Soda shifted uneasily, then said "Sayin' good bye to the pond."

"Who's at the pond?"

"Didn't say he was sayin' good-be _at _the pond. Sayin' good-bye _to_ the pond."

"Oh" Darrel said, like he understood what the hell Soda was talking about. Ponyboy Curtis was an enigma to his oldest brother.

He was named Michael at birth, and Darrel had memories of the quiet, placid infant who seemed to ponder the world with big gray-green eyes, sucking two fingers and mulling things over in a comically solemn way for a baby.

That baby had crowed with delight, though, at his first contact with a horse, almost wiggling out of his father's arms, and his Pa, pleased with something he could understand about this thoughtful elf, his youngest, said "I reckon we got ourselves another pony boy."—

referring to Soda's all ready apparent devotion to horses—and unknowingly bestowed the nickname the boy would have the rest of his life.

In fact, it was Pony's and Soda's uncanny way with horses that netted them the much sought-after job of wranglers on this drive. Darrel couldn't help a smirk of pride that he himself was riding point. Phillip Sheppard had made all the job decisions, and made them on merit after watching the round-ups and branding.

His own grandson, Curly, was riding drag. Darrel snorted with laughter, remembering the young hot-head's reaction to _that _job decision.

Darrel turned and went through the small adobe house on his way to the back, where the wagon and the mules waited. He glanced around. The place hadn't held much before, and now it was stripped of anything useful.

The few cooking pots, tin plates and cups were packed, the hunting rifles and shotguns stowed; the worn blankets cleaned and folded; all in the wagon.

Darrel sighed. This was the only home he knew, and he was so glad to be leaving. He felt guilty. His last memories of his mother were here—the happy ones sometimes crowded out by the ones of her lingering death...the last memories of his father, too, as Pa had placed the responsibility for his younger brothers on Darrel's fifteen year old shoulders, before riding off to war.

A lot of the men around here had ridden off at that time. Most, like Shayne Curtis, did not come back. One exception to this, Phillip Sheppard, had declared he had never owned any slaves and wasn't going to get his head blown off so some other man could. Besides, he'd seen enough battle with the Mexicans and Commanche to know what it was like.

But Shayne Curtis had reacted to the battle call like a hound to a whistle...

Darrel shook off the memories, as he went out back.

He checked the harness of the mules, the rigging of the wagon,

then looked inside. With all their own gear stowed neatly to the side,

there was plenty of room This was going to be the second wagon on the trail, carrying bedrolls and supplies that didn't belong in the grub wagon. The Curtis's were being paid extra for the use of their wagon and mules.

Darrel picked up a clean feed sack he didn't remember being here before...it was too heavy, and as he peered inside he sighed. Might have known...

He pulled back out of the wagon just in time to see his youngest brother walking up, wiping his eyes, his paint pony ambling faithfully behind him.

"Pony" Darrel began, then noted the red eyes and thought to himself "oh lordy please don't let that be from saying good-bye to the pond."

Now that he thought about, Pony did spend alot of time at the place; not so much now, when he was old enough to help, but when he was a kid he was often found there—looking at bugs, as far as Darrel could tell, watching wild life, staring at clouds, dreaming God knew what.

Once, a five year old Pony had picked out one of the chickens and followed it around all day—to see what it was like to be a chicken, he explained to his incredulous family, as if _that_ was any kind of explanation.

He's damn lucky he didn't end up named ChickenBoy, Darrel thought grimly, looking at his scrawny brother.

Pony was small for his age, skinny as a rail, and as his clothes were usually patched together hand-me-downs from Soda, who got them from Darrel, they hung loosely on him, making him look even frailer.

He was as tough as a little whip of rawhide, Darrel knew, and could knock himself black and blue training a horse, herding cattle, without a whimper. But on the other hand, it was entirely possible he was bawling around from saying good-bye to the pond.

He's fourteen, Darrel thought, wearily, surely to God he's going to out-grow some of this nonsense.

"Pony"

"Yeah?"

"What's this?"

Darrel held up the heavy feed sack.

"You know there's no room for extras on this drive."

"That ain't extra! We got to have it!"

"_We_ got to have it or _you_ got to have it?"

Pony snatched the sack out of his brother's hand and clutched it to him. Inside was the family Bible—Darrel would have let him get away with that—but it was the complete works of Shakespeare, an illustrated volume of fairy tales, and a book of travels that caused trouble.

All the Curtis brothers knew each by heart, and Pony could recite pages.

"Aw, let him take it, Darry" Soda joined them. "Maybe we'll get bored some times an' people will want to hear something"

Soda had heard from Steve Randle that the trail got boring; Soda didn't believe that, but he didn't want to see those precious books pried out of Pony's arms.

"Okay" Darrel gave in, glad to be moving. "But if room's needed that's the first thing that goes."

Pony replaced the bag gently. Soda led up Darrel's big flea-bit gray and tied him to the back of the wagon. Darrel would drive the mules until they reached the small settlement of Clearwater, where a wagon driver would take over. Darrel would join with the other drovers; Pony and Soda reporting to the head wrangler.

"Well, boys, this is it." Darrel looked around. I'm glad to go, he thought, defiantly blinking back tears.

The small vegetable garden cooked in the sun, nobody had bothered to water it for days. No more weeding, no more hauling water, no more nagging the others to help. The last of the chickens had been plucked and eaten; no more trying to keep a coyote-proof chicken house, no more trying to round up the last straggler at night, or nag someone to do it. Nobody had told Darrel what hard work nagging was. No wonder Pa had ridden off to the war like he was going to a party.

But now the boys would have their own boss and someone else to ride their asses.

"You think we'll ever come back?" Pony said wistfully.

Darrel glanced at Soda and refrained from barking "No!"

"Maybe sometime" Soda said. He planned to, if only to sign on for another drive. He would miss home, but the open spaces looked better to him, always moving toward the next adventure.

He ruffled Pony's hair back, knocking his hat to hang by its strings.

"Let's ride, pard."

Soda swung onto his chestnut mustang, and cantered out ahead.

Darrell settled into the driver's seat, and slapped the reins at the mules.

"Ho!" he shouted, and the mules moved on.

Pony took a couple of running steps and vaulted onto his pony's rump, then into the saddle. He looked over his shoulder before galloping after Soda.

Darrel watch them go. It hadn't occurred to either of his brothers that after this drive they'd be relatively rich. Thanks to Darrel's constant vigilance on their cattle, always keeping up with the branding, never letting one stray get away, doing everything he could to insure the health of the herd, the Curtis brothers had the most beeves in the drive. Once they reached the stockyards of Kansas, they would be sharing a sizeable sum.

"Get Pony into a good school" Darrel thought. "Somewhere where book-learning is valuable, not useless. Put Soda's share in a bank—once he gets a taste of a drover's life he's not going to settle down for awhile."

Darrel tried again to think of what his own future might hold, but then, he could worry about that later. Right now he just sighed with relief.

"Free" thought Darrel.

"Yahoo!" Soda urged on his horse. "Tomorrow!" he thought.

Pony was the only one who glanced back, who thought: "Home"

10


	3. Chapter 3

Drive North II by Jess MacIntosh The Outsiders AU Old West 

This universe is closed for right now.

Summary: In 1867 the Curtis brothers join a cattle drive north to sell their cattle.

Disclaimer: S.E. owns the Outsiders characters. I am not making any money from this story. 

Eugene, locally known as "Two-Bits" Mathews, leaned his head against the side of the chuck wagon and sighed. Lordy, Lordy, Lordy, how had he ever gotten into this mess? Flattery, that was the first weapon old man Sheppard had used.

"Best cook in the territory, exceptin' you M'am." Phillipe Sheppard had pretended not to know Two-Bits was just outside the cantina, listening from the courtyard. "Cook's the most important person on the drive. And he learned from the best."

"Well, thank you, Mr. Sheppard" Mother had been wiping her hands on her apron, a habit now, unbreakable.

"And I'll pay him well, More than the drovers. I can pick up drovers anywhere, but a good cook can't be replaced."

Money! The next weapon in Mr Sheppard's arsenal. Two-Bits decided it was time to grace Mr Sheppard with his presence. He had strolled into the cantina with what he thought was a humble air for someone who was the second-best cook in the territory, and the most important man on a trail drive.

"Here, here's an advance on his wages."

"Oh" Mother had gasped. "Look Eugene! We can get the new oven! And send Lizzy over to Fredericksburg for schoolin'"

She looked up suddenly. "Is it safe? I mean, he's only a boy..."

Two-Bits thought he saw Mr. Seppard's eye twitch, but he said smoothly "I'm takin' my own grandsons as drovers. Some of the boys are younger—the younger Curtis brothers, for instance, I think Pony's barely fourteen "

"Oh, is that sweet child going with you? I'm going to miss those boys. You know, Soda galloped in here once a week to sell me their eggs. And he never broke a one."

"Yes mam, I can believe that. Not many as good on a horse as that young'un. And as for Two-Bits bein' a boy, ma'm, most people around here think you're a man as soon as you prove yourself one."

"Well, Eugene" Mr Sheppard turned to him. "How does this all sound to you? I know I couldn't get a better cook. You know how to drive a mule team?"

"Yep" Two-Bits answered with such confidence that his mother stared at him. As far as she knew, he couldn't lead a mule team, much less drive one.

"Well, I got Little John Cade signed on to drive the other wagon, be the cook's helper, he can give you some help if you need it. And White Snake's going to scout, be our interrupter if we run into any redskins. Don't think we'll need Eugene for any hunting. I seen White Snake put an arrow clean through

a buffalo."

Thank God, Two-Bits thought. His hunting skills were dismal. They didn't have a horse, he was afraid to shoot his grandfather's old single-loader, afraid it'd blow up in his face, and hunting involved very unpleasant things like getting up early, walking long distances, dodging snakes and getting sun-burned.

"You can dress a deer, can't you Eugene?"

"Yep" Two-Bits said "But I prefer 'em naked."

His mother laughed at his wit, as usual, but Mr. Sheppard's smile didn't reach his eyes.

"Don't worry, m'am, I'll treat him like he was one of my own grandkids"

That should have set off a warning bell in Two-Bits' mind, reminded him that the rare times the Sheppard kids got to come to town they always complained about what an old slave driver their grandpa was, a hard man looking to make his grandsons hard men, but he was too busy repeating his latest witticism over in his mind to recall it.

"If you'll excuse us, m'am, me and Eugene here need to step outside and have a discussion about his duties."

"Yes, of course. And thank you, Phillippe, for giving Eugene such an wonderful opportunity."

Mr. Sheppard put his hat back on, touched the brim, and cordially walked with Two-Bits out the door.

There, he grabbed him by the shoulders, pulled him into an alley and shoved him up against the wall of the general store.

"Listen, you lazy little piece of bull dung" He hissed into Two-Bits' startled face.

"This is going to be the most work you've ever done in your life. You'll be the first one up and the last to hit the sack. You'll be cookin' for twelve hungry men twice a day and keepin' vittles around in case one of them gets hungry between shifts. You'll gather enough firewood to keep the campfire lit all night. You'll keep your camp clean, your supplies dry, your water barrels filled. You'll keep your wagons one half mile, and one half mile only, behind the herd."

He gave Two-bits a little shake.

"I'll make a man out of you since you are damn unlikely to do it yourself. Your ma—your ma could have married any man for three hundred miles around, and she settles on that worthless sweet-talkin' drummer who could sell cactus in the desert, who only came home enough to give her two kids and nothin' to support 'em with, and here you are, lolling around the cantina like a lord in his castle--oh don't open your smart mouth long enough to brag on your cookin';

you wouldn't be doin' that much if you could get away with it."

Phillippe Sheppard took a deep breath and let go of Two-Bits' shoulders.

He stepped back and Two-Bits thought his dark eyes looked like an old eagle's would, just before it got ready to swoop down and tear something to pieces.

"I've took my quirt to my grandboys enough to be real practiced. Don't think I won't use it on your lazy butt if I have to. Remember, _Eugene, _I was there when you got your name."

His name! Two-bits straightened up off the chuck wagon, and groaned. He was all ready exhausted from loading and he wasn't half done.

There were sacks and sacks of flour, sourdough, dried cornmeal, sugar, salt, honey, dried fruit, salt pork, bacon, beans, coffee, rice, molasses, soda, several bottles of whiskey—Phillippe had used his grimmest voice to tell him it was for medical purposes only—ten gallons of kerosene, Luficer sticks, a dozen ,45 Colts and twenty boxes of cartridges...Two-Bits wondered for a moment why all the extra guns were needed... lanterns, coffee grinder, tobacco and papers.

Extra rope, Dutch oven, cast iron skillet—flapjacks, stews, biscuits, dumplings,

slumgullion, pies..._he_ was supposed to come up with all this...

Little John Cade came up with a sack of flour that almost hid his small frame. He looked up at Two-Bits questioningly, and Two-Bits climbed into the wagon to take it from him. At least he knew how to organize supplies. He'd paid enough attention to his mother's kitchen for that. Everything was stacked in order, the most used always at hand, there'd be no time wasted clambering around searching for stuff.

He was going to drive a four mule team and in spite of taking lessons from

Little John, he could barely handle two...

He saw Little John wave and he knew without looking that White Snake was in town. Two-Bits shuddered, not knowing if he felt safer or more nervous that White Snake would be leading the way.

At least "Two-Bits" was a better name than "White Snake", Two-Bits thought. Unless you wanted to strike dread into people's hearts, and he had no desire to do that. Almost everyone had some kind of nickname.

Pony and Soda Curtis, that hot-head Steve Randle known as Pistol. Curly Sheppard. Little John Cade, as opposed to Big John Cade, his blacksmith father.

Two-Bits liked his name very much, except when he thought of the humiliating experience of acquiring it.

He'd been around ten or so, hanging around the cantina as usual, when a large group of very hungry Texas Rangers came in. Eugene loved company, and was thrilled to sit around with the dusty men, joshing, matching their tall tales, creating, he thought, quite the impression with his quick wit. Then his frazzled, bustling mother had said "Eugene, honey, could you please get that next tray of beers? Lizzy's too small to carry it."

The rowdy conversation ceased. The men looked from her to Eugene, who suddenly felt very uncomfortable, although he couldn't pin point why.

"This is your boy, ma'm?"

"Yes?"

"Hell, excuse me ma'm, heck, I wouldn't give you two-bits for this lazy little windbag."

The ranger grabbed Eugene by the scruff of his neck and shook him to a standing position.

"Now you quit your jawin' and get to helping your ma there, Two-Bits"

The name had stuck, but how he'd received it had disappeared with the cloud of dust the Rangers left, or so he thought.

Until today. And he Phillippe Shepard would not be above telling the tale if provoked.

Why why why why? Two-Bits loved the cantina, the shady courtyard where he'd frequently join the customers for a beer or two. He loved the little town of Clearwater, where everyone knew everyone else. He loved cooking, especially since Ma and Lizzy usually had everything ready and usually cleaned up after.

He liked, as well as loved, his mother and little sister. His mother adored him, and his sister worshipped him, and he reveled in it.

And here he was, going off on some gawforsaken trail to end up who knows where, maybe some part of his anatomy becoming a trophy dangling on a lance, or on a belt like White Snake wore.

And for Phillippe Shepard, who Two-Bits strongly suspected neither adored nor worshipped him.

Two-Bits suddenly frowned, almost dropping a coffee barrel on Little John.

"She could have married any man for three hundred miles around."

That's what old man Sheppard had said. He'd been a widower for a long time.

Two-Bits suddenly wondered if the ex-Ranger had included himself in that statement.


	4. Chapter 4

The Trail North

By Jess MacIntosh

Chapter 4

The Outsiders AU Old West

Disclaimer: S.E. Hinton owns these characters and I am not making any money from this.

Note: I realize this is really chapter 3, as I accidentally posted Chapter 1 twice.

I am new to this, and don't know how to fix it. So I hope you continue reading despite the confusion.

This universe is closed for now, thanks.

Ponyboy Curtis was enjoying the trail drive so far. It was much less hectic than a round-up, and he didn't have to smell sizzling flesh and burning hair as brands were applied. The cattle didn't bawl quite as loud, but vocalized their protests with grunts and groans in an un-ending mutter. The pace was slow—the Boss, as Phillippe Sheppard was now known, had made it clear.

"Every pound lost is money out of my pocket, and I catch anyone taking money out of my pocket there's going to be an inch off his hide."

"That's as true as a broken cinch means a cracked head." Curly had muttered.

So, basically the drovers were grazing the cattle north, not pushing them.

Pony knew he would have made a bad drover. Cows just didn't interest him. Meat on the hoof. If he was supposed to be looking out for cows, no doubt he would have gotten interested in something else: a coyote chasing a rabbit, a hawk being driven away by a flock of crows. He would have wandered off and gotten lost or lost a cow, and either would have been disastrous.

But he was very interested in the horses, and to his own surprise, the drovers.

Before, Pony didn't like people much. Or, maybe. He thought, he just didn't understand them. He didn't often go to town, even when Darry took the wagon in for supplies. Soda would make excuses to go at least twice a week, taking eggs to trade or barter, getting Big John Cade to shoe a horse, but Pony would rather stay home and keep an eye on the cattle and horses, watch for wolf or Indian sign. Or read in peace.

He never knew what to say to people. Soda could talk to anyone, enjoyed talking to everyone, from Grandma Yost to the Nickleson's two year old baby.

Darry could always be found in a group of men, in the general store, or the catina, talking ranching and weather, his opinion as respected as anyone's.

But when people asked Pony "How are you today?" or said "You sure have grown, you'll be as big as your brothers soon." Pony said "fine" or "yes" and the conversation withered like bluebells in summer heat.

He couldn't think what to ask in return, he figured they were fine if they were walking down the street, and didn't much care if they were growing or not. Besides that, they must be blind if they thought he'd ever be as big as Darry, or even Soda, who'd never be as big as Darry.

People made him feel stupid.

He understood animals much better, and had known he would be interested in the remuda, but, to his surprise, he found watching the drovers almost as fascinating.

It started by watching who picked what horse. The Boss had provided four horses to a man, and they were rotated night and day. First choice was by draw, then the horses were picked in order.

Darry chose big horses, naturally, he was filling out into a big man, and needed something that could handle his weight.

It was quickly apparent that Soda was needed as a drover—Pony could handle all the horses without trouble, all though Soda would lend a hand when necessary. Soda wouldn't give up his chestnut mustang, but needed some alternates. He had too much sense to choose by beauty, but he liked his horses to be quick off the mark, be able to spin on a dime.

Pistol Randle liked them hot, and so did Curly Sheppard, but Pistol wisely choose the ones who had cow sense, too.

Curly got tossed once a day.

The Boss and Tim Sheppard had brought along two each of their fancy Spanish breed, although the Boss knew better than to bring his bay stud. Pony had thought those horses would drive him crazy—they were breathtakingly beautiful, for sure, but the way they flipped their heads and never stopped jigging. It wore him out to just watch.

Then he realized something—those horses never tired. Both the Boss and Tim were long-boned and heavy-muscled, and the horses were small, with delicate legs and short backs, but they could go all day and would only lather with the heat, not exhaustion.

Pony wasn't insult that the Sheppards liked to take care of their own horses. There was no knowing what they cost. Apparently they were some prize you had to earn—Curly kept boasting about the one he would eventually have, and pretended not to notice the Boss or his brother Tim giving him a raised eyebrow.

Two-Bits didn't ride at all, and would have had trouble just handling the mules if it wasn't for Little John Cade's expert help.

White Snake rode his raw-boned, lanky cream-colored gelding, which everyone knew had been stolen off the Nicholson ranch years ago.

In fact, George Nicholson was reporting it stolen to Buck Merrill, the sheriff, when White Snake brazenly rode it down the middle of the only street in Clearwater.

A braided-rawhide rope was looped through its mouth, the only piece of tack it was wearing. There was a painted lightning zig-zag down a back leg, showing it was a fast horse. A black circle enclosed one eye, announcing it had good eye-sight. But it was the blood-red handprint on the neck that caught the most attention. Even those who couldn't read paint sign shuddered.

White Snake was dressed, or un-dressed, in a buckskin breechcloth and vest, though he usually would respect the citizens enough to wear pants. Eagle feathers were woven into a single side-braid of his shoulder-length white-blond hair.

White Snake himself wore paint, the three bars on his face marking three big battles he had been in—Comanche didn't bother to keep track of small ones.

He also wore his trophy belt, some of the scalps suspiciously light, and his necklace strung with wolf-teeth, cougar claw, and Big John Cade's right ear.

He carried a bow and a full quiver of arrows, the handle of a Bowie knife protruded from his buckskin boots. His cold pale blue eyes were set in the face of a warrior's, and he didn't even glance toward Nicholson and the sheriff.

"This the horse you're talking about?" Buck had motioned to the gelding.

George Nicholson had paused, stared, then stammered "Uh, no, mine's not that tall."

"Okay" The sheriff had shrugged. Buck Merrill had come back from the war with a strange light in his eyes and a taste for rot-gut whiskey—he was hard to rile, but something about that strange light made people do their best to stay peaceful around him.

Two-Bits had been there the day the Boss hired White-Snake, and had told the story so often it was all ready sounding like a legend.

"I need a scout, and someone who speaks Injun. I suppose that would be you." The Boss had said.

"Yes"

There was an argument over whether or not White Snake filed his teeth or if they were naturally sharp—but no one liked to see them bared in what passed for his smile.

"I hear you're quite the horse-thief."

"The best"

"Well, all I need is a scout and translator, so you can say I'm payin' you not to steal horses, too. I realize you get points for the skill in the Injun world, but you'll be travelin' with whites on this trip."

White Snake had nodded and the Boss got his scout. It made most of the drovers uneasy. White Snake was known as the most dangerous man in the county.

He was seventeen years old.

So Ponyboy Curtis watched, sat around the camp-fire at night and listened, and realized the tales he heard were as good as the ones he read. The drovers were characters with their own stories. He sat next to Little John Cade, who was as quiet as he was, and wouldn't expect any conversation. Pony knew, sooner or later, though he'd never hear a sound, he'd glance over and see White Snake seated cross-legged on the other side of Little John. Even though he expected it, it always made him jump.

He listened to stories of river-crossings and stampedes. Pistol, who had experienced both, lectured about their dangers in great detail. Pony heard about Fort Worth, where they would draw their first wages, the wonders it held--gunslingers and sporting women. Pony, who had no trouble with imagining castles and the broad trees of Sherwood Forrest, could not picture either.

And sometimes, when Tim Sheppard was on his night watch, and White Snake was off sleeping or whatever it was he did at night, the rest of the boys laid bets on which of those two would draw first blood.


	5. Chapter 5

I'm sorry I took so long to update. Real life got in the way. I am going to try very hard not to let it happen again.

Thanks to all who encouraged me, and again, apologies for being late.

S.E. Hinton owns the Outsiders characters. I am not doing this for money.

The Drive North 5

By Jess

"I never know when our Mr. Snake is goin' to show up for grub", Two-Bits remarked as he and Little John stacked up the breakfast plates.

White Snake had been the last to drop off his tin plate, still scrubbing up the molasses with a piece of Two-Bit's famous raisin flapjacks. The rest of the drovers were disgusted or envious of the way White Snake ate with his fingers, like a heathen—although it was only manners or public opinion keeping them from doing it them selves.

"Of course, there's no tellin' what he eats out there on the trail."

Everyone had heard Pistol's story of seeing Snake leap off his horse, snatch something off the ground-- snake, lizard, large bug?--bite its head off, chew and swallow it.

"You'll always see him here when you fix somethin' sweet. Indians don't get sugar much. They're crazy for it."

"When did you get to be such an Injun expert, Johnnycakes?"

Little John shrugged. "Snake told me."

"He _talked_ to you?"

"Why shouldn't he talk to me? I talk to him."

Well, Two-Bit thought, if that don't beat all.

Now that he thought about it, though, he had seen White Snake and Little John Cade palavering before, back in town. It had struck him as a little odd, the friendship between the skittish Little John, who was always either trying to help his huge blacksmith father or scramble away from the man's fists, and the feared white Commanche. And of course Two-bits had been witness to the famous Incident of the Sliced-Off Ear.

Two-Bits considered it just plain good business to keep up with all the happenings in town, entertaining the customers with all the bits of news and gossip he could find. His morning habit was to walk from one end of the town to the other, an activity he could stretch out from a brisk twenty minute walk to a leisurely hour long mosey.

He always stopped by the blacksmith shop—it was usually one of the first places strangers or neighbors stopped by in town; horses were only as good as their feet. It usually had a few people hanging around, a good source of gossip and news. That day there didn't seem much of either, but Two-Bits was in no hurry to move on.

"Bring me that file!" Big John had yelled. He had a habit of yelling, most people thought he had a hearing loss due to the constant hammer and anvil noise, besides a bad temper.

Two-Bits hadn't noticed Little John lurking in the shadows under the loft, but now the kid scurried out with a large hoof file, only to have his father back-hand him with it.

"I mean now, not a week from Thursday" the blacksmith roared, while Little John crouched on the packed dirt and wiped the blood off his face. He would carry that scar for the rest of his life.

There were several witnesses to what happened next. All were agreed on one thing, it happened so fast that it took minutes to figure out.

White Snake had apparently been standing in the shadows with Little John, the next second he had fastened himself on the blacksmith's back, the force of his leap taking the big man to the ground, like a cougar pouncing.

A blur of flashing metal, a triumphant screech, and White Snake was back on his feet, waving the bloody trophy of Big John Cade's right ear, whooping a war cry.

Dumfounded, the blacksmith sat and looked at him, his hand over the bloody hole where his ear had been, not yet feeling the pain.

"You touch him again" White Snake almost hissed "And I'll take something you value even more."

With that threat he was gone, and the witnesses were still puzzling out what had happened. But it had finally dawned on Big John, who began to howl with pain and anger.

Little John, Two-Bits noticed, was looking after his defender like a man dying of thirst in the desert would look at someone who had given him water.

Everyone who had been there noticed that afterwards Little John carried fewer bruises than before.

Two-Bits was startled from his thoughts by a commotion coming up to the wagons. It was the Boss, yelling at a small figure on a paint pony trotting beside him. Two-Bits frowned.

Pony Curtis was the only one who rode a paint pony, and the kid was right over by the remuda, helping Darry and Tim get their fresh horses for the next shift. The older boys took both the last night and first morning shifts, the younger hands needing at least three hours straight sleep if they were going to be any good.

Now all three of them were turned toward the ruckus.

"I can't afford to spare a man to take you back! You want to be treated the same as Curly? All right then, missy, I'm going to take my quirt to your back-side and you can damn well ride drag til we get to Fort Forth and I can see to your gettin' home!"

Tim handed his reins to Pony and came over to the chuck wagon where the Boss and the newcomer had stopped.

The small figure jumped off the paint.

"Angelique?" Tim sounded dumb-founded.

His thirteen year old sister took off her hat and her black curls tumbled to her shoulders.

"I told you I wanted to come." She said defiantly, but her voice quivered a little and her eyes were red.

Two-Bit didn't blame her. More than one of the hands had been a little red eyed after a tongue blistering from the Boss.

"She's been trailing us all this time." The Boss had dismounted, and was slapping his quirt ominously onto his palm.

"It's a wonder the wolves or the Injuns or Comancheros didn't get her, the little fool"

"Are you crazy, Angel?" Tim strode over to her and shook her by the shoulders. "No telling what could have happened to you!"

Angelique jerked loose and stepped back.

"It's not fair! I can ride and shoot as well as you and Curly---well, Curly anyway, and I get stuck home with sewing lessons?! I'm sick of being stuck at home all the time. You know you need another hand! And I can take care of myself.

Another voice suddenly joined the conversation.

"I was watching out for her. She was in no danger."

White Snake stood on the other side of the grub wagon, an amused smirk on his face.

"You mean you knew she was out there and you never said nothing?" The Boss looked like he'd take his quirt to his scout next.

White Snake shrugged. "It wasn't my business. But I made sure she was safe."

"You did not!" Angelique snapped. "I would have seen you. If you had been anywhere near me I would have woke up. My brothers are always trying tricks with me and I always catch them first."

White Snake reached into his side pouch and pulled out a long, blue black curl.

"You didn't wake up." His teeth were so sharp that there was a rumor he filed them. "I am very quiet."

Angelique gasped and went white, running her hand through her hair. She stared at Snake like he was the devil himself.

"Protect her, hell!" Tim snarled, his face dark with rage "You were just watching, waiting your chance to—":

White Snake looked at Angelique and back at Tim with a sneer.

"That scrawny little prairie chicken? She wouldn't even last through a good f—"

With a roar, Tim ran at him, swinging.


	6. Chapter 6

The Trail North Chapter 6

The Trail North Chapter 6

By Jess MacIntosh

The Outsiders

AU The Old West

Disclaimer: S.E. Hinton owns these characters. I'm not making any money from this.

The fight was eerily quiet, the only noise being Tim's boots scraping in the dirt and his muttered grunts and curses. And the sound of his blows whistling through the air. There was no doubt in anyone's mind that if any of the blows had connected, Snake's head would be parted from his body. But none of them did.

Of course, the ones who were most likely to whoop and holler were with the herd—Pistol, Soda, Curly.

Angelique watched, still shocked into silence, twirling her hair as if searching for something. The Boss stood impassive, his face unreadable. Two-Bits, who normally would be at least taking bets, stayed quiet, not certain who to root for.

Although he shared his townsfolk's repulsion for Commanches, Snake hadn't personally caused him any trouble, but Tim's arrogance when his grandfather wasn't around was hard to stomach.

Darry had strolled over before the fight really got going, and Pony, wide-eyed, had followed. The horses he had been tending were forgotten; confused and trusting, they had followed behind him like a small herd of large sheep.

Pony had never seen a real, honest-to-goodness fight before. The rare times he and his brothers had lost their tempers with each other, it had turned into a shoving, pushing, half-assed wrestling match until someone decided it was beneath their dignity to roll around like a little kid (Darry) or started laughing (usually Soda) or cried with frustration (Pony, although not much recently). He was dumb-struck at two people trying to seriously injure each other.

Snake was fast, light on his feet, and could dodge Tim's powerful fists with ease, giving no appearance of fleeing. In fact, he gave every appearance of enjoying himself, which only fueled Tim's rage. Once Tim had managed to grapple with him, deciding wrestling rather than slugging was the answer, only to have Snake turn himself upside down and slither loose like a rattler, and manage to kick Tim in the gut as he got free.

The next second Tim's gun had cleared his holster and Snake's hand came up flashing silver and the audience held their breath.

Damn, Two-Bits thought, Sheppard has been working on his fast draw. With all the talk of gunslingers in Fort Worth, they had all tried to practice a fast draw, but it had been forbidden by the Boss after Curly had almost shot his toe off. Tim must have practiced on the sly because that was _damn _fast.

Everyone held their breath, but when the shot came even Tim almost jumped out of his boots.

The Boss had pulled out his rifle and fired skyward.

"Stop it right there!"

The fierce laughing light went out of Snake's eyes and he stood sullenly staring at Tim. Tim stepped forward immediately, still hot with anger.

"You're not going to back me against this heathen?! You forgetting what happened to Pa and Mother? How could you even look this bastard in the face, much less hire him with our family history with Commanches? When I think—"

"You just stop the tongue waggin' right now, boy! You think I need remindin' of what happened to my son? That I need you to think of Antionette, who I loved like she was my own? I think of that pretty girl every day and every day I wish I could have been there to put a bullet through her head before those devils made off with her! If I ever get my hands on the Injuns that done it I will skin them alive and you are welcome to watch. But this Indian—"the Boss jerked a thumb toward White Snake "had nothing to do with it. He wasn't even an Injun yet, all those raids happened close together, and if you're too young to remember what happened to his family when he got took, I'll tell you right now it was not a Sunday school picnic.

"This is a land grab, Timothy, and it's been going on since history first started, before God was telling the Israelites to take the Canaanite's land and cast them out, no matter what the blood cost was. To hear tell it, God is telling the whites right now to take this land and chase the savages off somewhere else. It won't be long before we run out of 'somewhere else' and that'll be the end of Indian life as they know it. Why people expect them to lay down and roll over for it beats me. I'm proud of my land and proud of the fight it took to get it and hold it and I'll make it flourish instead of just riding across it on the way to somewhere else like the Commanche did. But that's my will, not God's."

The Boss paused for breath.

"I'm not asking you two to be friends, none of us are here to hold a social. But as long as you're working for me you're not fighting. I'm short handed and I need a scout bad. What happens at the end of trail is up to you."

His sharp eagle eyes swept across the camp. "I'm not paying you yahoos to stand around slack jawed. Get out there so the other boys can come in and have breakfast. Angelique, you're so eager to drive beeves, get out there and take over drag for Curly. You and me will have us a little talk later."

Everyone scrambled to get back to their jobs, even Tim and Darry, who both tried very hard to look like they weren't scrambling. White Snake swung up on his cream colored horse and galloped off.

Two-Bit and Johnnycakes hurriedly finished up the dishes and got the next round of flapjacks going.

"You didn't seem too worried about your hero, Mr. Snake" Two-Bits remarked.

Johnnycakes made a sound that sounded like a snort.

"You ever see White Snake throw a knife? Well, I have."

That evening the story was told several times, by different witnesses. Pony's version was the best, as he wasn't inclined to grossly exaggerate like Two-Bits, or clip it short like Tim.

In fact, Pony, Soda thought, was the best story-teller of them all, sometimes downright poetic, probably from all the reading the kid had done.

Soda pitched his bedroll next to Pony's, as usual. His little brother usually had some question, or remark, or story about the day, as well as listening raptly to anything Soda had to tell. At home they'd been used to whispering together long after Darry's snores had started.

Soda had no doubt Pony was still re-living fight and had remembered more details. So he was a little surprised, and more than a little dumbfounded when the kid whispered:

"Soda, what _exactly _do sportin' women _do_?"


	7. Chapter 7

The Drive North 7

The Drive North 7

By Jess MacIntosh

AU Old West

The Outsiders characers belong to S.E. Hinton. I am not making any money from this.

"Well" Soda swallowed, the night seeming warmer than ever, "They're...they're real friendly gals that work in saloons and you can buy them drinks and...talk to them."

"I don't know why everybody is getting all excited about talking to some gals."

Pony's eyes were dark and shinning with starlight and Soda suddenly wished he could keep his little brother innocent and young and so damn—Soda couldn't think of the right word but he wished he could keep Pony that way, anyway.

"I think there has to be more than talking going on."

"Sometimes you kiss them." Soda admitted.

"Why would you do that?"

"Well, they're friendly and you have to be friendly."

"You're friendly to everybody but you don't go around kissing them."

Soda sighed. "Maybe you could ask Darry about this."

"He probably wouldn't tell me, the way he looks at people to hush up if he sees me around when they're talking about it. Besides, I don't think Darry likes us much anymore."

"What?" Soda propped himself up on one elbow, then remembered to lower his voice. "Why would you think that?"

"Well, he never talks to us anymore, or pays much attention to what we're doin'"

"He's got some older people like the Boss and Tim to palaver with, now, probably enjoying it. He'll get over it pretty soon."

Soda wasn't real sure that was the truth. Now that he thought about it, Darry did seemed kind of distant these days.

"So you got to tell me, Soda, what is it exactly that sportin' women do?"

Soda took a deep breath. Okay, he'd tell him, no telling what kind of mess he could hear about it once they got to Fort Worth.

"They work in saloons, or sometimes they have their own houses and you buy them drinks and paythemtomatewithyou."

Soda rushed though the last part but Pony had heard it all too clearly.

"You pay them to mate with you?" Pony whispered, horrified. "But I thought—Darry said, you mate with your wife so you can breed some kids. "

When both Soda and Pony were younger, and naturally wanted to know if humans mated like cattle or horses did, Darry sat them both down and explained everything in detail, complete with drawings in the dirt.

Soda realized with a wince that Pony knew _how_, he just didn't know _why_.

"Sometimes it might take you a while to find a girl to marry so you visit sportin' women."

"But...you don't want to breed kids with them, do you? So why?"

"It's fun." Soda said finally. "Some times you can't wait until you find a gal to marry so you have fun with saloon gals instead. Pistol says it's the most fun you can ever have."

Soda left out the part about when Pistol came home after his first cattle drive, his pa whaled the daylights out of him because he'd spent about half his wages on sporting women.

"Pistol" Pony's voice was heavy with disgust. "If he knew half of what he thinks he does he'd be the most valuable person on earth."

Soda bit back a laugh. Pony's insight and way with words were always amazing him.

"Anyway, I seen dogs and cats and what-all mating and nobody looked like they were having much fun to me. You ever hear the girl cats? They scream like they're bein' scalped."

"I hear the screamin' means they're having a good time."

"Huh," Pony wasn't convinced. "Well, I'm never going to do that. I mean, maybe later if I'm old and really think I need some kids. How the hell can people do that, anyway? "

Soda knew Pony did not want to hear "You'll understand when you're older" so he didn't reply.

"Soda!" Pony said suddenly, reaching over and grasping Soda's shirt front, like he had back when he was really little and ready to go to sleep sucking his thumb, "You're not planning on...on visiting those gals, are you?"

Soda said "Yes, I am. I need to. I got to find out about it now."

No sense lying at this point.

"I don't want you to."

"I'm going to anyway" Soda said gently.

"I'll tell Darry"

"Go ahead. Ain't like he never visited sportin' women either."

"There ain't no such women in Clearwater!"

"Nope, but there's some in riding distance, kid. Darry's a grown man. Some times you got to..."

Pony rolled over onto his back, and blinked hard at the stars.

"So 'sportin'' That means the same as—"

Pony said a word Soda didn't even know he knew and one that would have Darry washing his mouth out with lye soap.

"That's an ugly word for what can be a pretty nice thing."

"Nice?" Pony shuddered. "Well, I'm not going to be doin' any 'nice'thing like that."

Soda wanted to say "Tell me that a year from now."

But he didn't. He reached over and patted Pony's arm. In a little while they both rolled away from each other.

Pony's dreams were jumbled and confused, full of strange images and weird feelings and conflicting emotions.

Soda dreamed about real friendly girls.


	8. Chapter 8

The Drive North Chapter 8

The Drive North Chapter 8

by Jess MacIntosh

AU Old West

disclaimer: Any character you recognize belong to S.E. Hinton or history. I am not making any money from this.

" I'm letting you boys go into town on shifts. We'll still need drovers to stay here with the herd. Little John, you and Pony and Two-Bits can go first. I need you and Two-Bits to scout out provisions and supplies. We'll probably run into a trading post or two on the trail, but this is the last town before Abilene."

The Boss paused for a minute.

"Anyone got a problem so far?"

Darry looked down at the rope he was braiding, pretending not to see Pony's pleading stare.

Darry didn't want to go to town with the kids. He was enjoying not being the boss, being on his own, looking out for himself. He paid enough attention to his brothers to know they were doing their jobs, but it felt like a burden off his shoulders to let someone else give them orders.

Two-Bits said "Don't I get a chance to have a little fun, too? I mean, Soda, Pistol, Tim, they're going to—"

"Don't worry" the Boss interrupted. "Everybody's going to have a chance at some fun. Here's an extra quarter, use the bath house. It's likely to be the last bath you'll have outside of rain and river crossings."

He looked at the youngest two. "You boys are doing a man's job and you're getting paid a man's wages. So I'll tell you what I'm going to tell the rest: Whiskey'll get you hangovers, whores will get you clap, and gambling will get you poor or killed. Remember that when you're having your 'fun' and you'll be fine. And if you can't make it through Fort Worth you sure as hell couldn't make it through Abilene."

Pony shot Darry another look, but Darry didn't seem to notice. He didn't want to go to town with the kids. He didn't want to tag along after Pony, answer his innumerable questions, keep an eye out for him in the candy stores and spend hours waiting for him to decide what periodicals or newspaper or, God forbid, books to buy.

The Boss is right, he thought, besides, what the hell trouble could he get into in the middle of the day? Soda's going to be a different story, but I'll worry about that later.

So Darry kept braiding and didn't look up.

"Glory!" Two-Bits looked around as they rode down Main Street. "Look at all these buildings! Some of 'em got three stories!"

"It's big." Pony almost twisted himself out of his saddle, trying to take everything in, "Look, they got sidewalks!"

"'Way too many people" Little John said nervously. The streets were wide, and full of more riders, wagons and buggies than Clearwater saw in a year. Nobody paid any attention to the three newcomers.

They might as well be invisible.

"We could get lost in this place."

Two-Bits wondered why Pony would think that when they'd been traveling for a week with nothing to guide them except the sun, stars, and White Snake's word, but he didn't bother to reassure him.

"Okay" Two-Bits pulled up in front of the big livery stable. "We can meet back here in a few hours. You can see this sign from almost anywhere.I'm going to go scout out the stores. If you get lost just ask someone where the livery stable is."

Pony watched him stride off, puzzled. Then he said, "I didn't mean that kind of lost."

And Little John said, "I know."

The two younger boys wandered down the sidewalk, looking in windows, looking in doors, slipping like small fish through the river of people.

"We really going to have to take a bath?" Little John wondered.

"I reckon. If they got hot water it won't be too bad. Darry makes me and Soda take one about once a month. He don't count swimmin' in the pond as a bath."

Pony paused in front of huge batwing doors. There was a sign in gilt lettering across the windows on the sides of the doors "The Palace Saloon". He could hear the sound of piano music and laughter and could see huge chandeliers hanging from the ceilings. It was the biggest single room he had ever seen.

He and Little John slid inside, barely making the doors move.

They stared around, taking it all in; the huge polished bar, brass railings, brass spittoons, polished sparkling glasses, felt-covered poker tables, a long felt-covered table where men were snapping sticks at colored balls, all the men and women dressed in finery, the music, laughter, loud voices...

"All right, you two" a heavy hand grabbed one ear of each boy and dragged them back out to the sidewalk.

"You're not welcome in here."

"Ouch!" Pony winced away. Little John tried to pull the hand away but couldn't.

"Hold on there, Pete"

A big voice boomed out behind them, and all three turned to the source.

A tall, heavy-set man, mustached, handsome but balding, dressed in a suit but wearing well-worn boots stood there, surveying the scene.

"You got any reason to be so rough with these boys?"

"Well, sir, Mr. Younger, they were snooping around inside like little pickpockets..."

"You know, a few years back, if I'd seen anybody being rough like that with my little brothers, I probably would have shot them. Of course" he added "Nowadays they're big enough to do their own shooting."

Pony thought the big man was joking, he was grinning like it, but the saloonkeeper let go and stood back immediately.

"Sorry, Mr. Younger," he muttered and practically tripped over himself in a rush to get back inside.

Mr. Younger looked down at the boys. "You don't want to go in there, anyways. You couldn't afford the whiskey, the cards or the women in this place."

"We just wanted to take a look." Little John said.

"Well, there's people in there that don't like being looked at, so run along."

"Cole!" A voice from inside the saloon yelled, "Get in here if you want to get in this game"

"Just a minute, Bob" Mr. Younger hollered back, then reached in his pocket and gave Pony and Little John a nickel each.

"Here, go get yourself a piece of candy, and watch out for this place."

"Yessir" Pony said "Thank you."

It seemed like there were two saloons for every store and house in town, but none as large and fancy as the first one. Pony had quickly finished off his piece of fudge, but Little John was still sucking on his peppermint when they started roaming the alleyways and side streets. Nice homes, shacks, chickens, dogs and cats, people who nodded greetings, people who looked right through them, they found more than enough to wonder at.

"Maybe we ought to get back" Pony said, looking at the sky. He was glad he'd come with Little John, who didn't need conversation, either.

It'd be hard to see everything and talk, too.

"Yeah, I want some time to go through that livery stable." Little John said. "We could use some more hoof-picks. And maybe they do harness repairs."

They turned down an alley to short-cut back to Main Street, and almost ran into a woman who was leaning against a wooden fence, smoking a cigarette.

She was wearing only a slip, and black stockings rolled at her knees, her dark hair was hanging in frizzy loops and her face was so heavily painted it didn't look human. She smiled, showing brown and snaggled teeth.

Pony froze and Little John stumbled into his back.

"Hey" she drawled sleepily, pulling at a whiskey bottle "Grow you up for a dollar."

Pony almost yelped with fear before he took off like the devil was chasing him, Little John close behind. They stumbled around the corner onto Main Street before collapsing onto a bench in front of a general store, panting for breath.

"I guess that was a sportin' woman." Little John said finally.

"I guess" Pony said, thinking, oh, God, Soda...

"I hope we didn't get clapped." He said suddenly.

"What?"

"Wasn't that what the Boss said about whores, they'd clap you?"

"I think you have to touch them or something. You didn't, did you?"

Pony shuddered. "No"

"I guess we're okay, then."

After Pony had spent an hour looking at all the horses stabled in the livery stable he got a little bored with it. Little John, however, was still inspecting the equipment and carriages and different kinds of tack, occasionally asking a question of the liveryman.

Pony went across the street and sat on the edge of the sidewalk in front of the Palace Saloon. He wondered if Mr. Younger was still inside. A calico cat came up to rub up against his knees, and Pony scratched its head. He had always wanted a cat, but they couldn't keep one at home, the coyotes got them. He got lost in thinking about home, if he'd ever see it again, and didn't notice the people starting to clear out. He didn't see one man stride to stand alone in the middle of the street, facing the saloon.

"Prince! Dark Prince! I'm calling you out! Come on out to meet your maker, you damn sonofabitch!"

Pony looked up, so startled that he slid off the sidewalk into the dust next to the saloon steps.

Dark Prince—where had he heard that name before? His blood turned cold. In all the talking about gunfighters, the name Dark Prince had been mentioned often, and mentioned with awe.

Pony sat absolutely still, not wanting to move and catch the attention of the man who was waiting with his hands above his guns. The cat suddenly ran away.

The silence waited.

Then Pony heard a jingling of spurs and a light trod of boots coming through the door behind him.

There was going to be a gunfight and he was right in the middle of it.


	9. Chapter 9

The Drive North Chapter 9

By Jess MacIntosh

There seemed to be a cloud sliding over the sun, but Pony knew the day was blazing as bright as ever. A shift in atmosphere, something intangible hung in the air. Death had come for a visit.

The town had gone eerily silent. Not even a dog barked. And after the first rush of footsteps to the windows of the saloon, the jabbering dying to whispers, there was no noise coming from behind him, either.

Except for those light steps and a jingling of silver.

Pony felt like his muscles had turned to water. He couldn't move, he could only stay still, not calling attention to himself.

The man across the street almost hummed with tension, like the air before a lightning strike. Pony saw the sweat running down his face, could feel the heat of his rage.

Now he could see the back of the man who came out behind him, surprisingly tall, board-shouldered, for all his light step. He was dressed in black, the cloth expensive even to Pony's untrained eye.

His gleaming, dark red hair hung to his shoulders, from under a flat-brimmed, low-crowned black hat.

As Pony watched, he flipped the tails of his black dress coat behind his gun handle. Pony was close enough to reach out and touch those shining silver spurs. But they blurred under the tears of fright, the tears of some unknown emotion that filled his eyes and ran unheeded down his cheeks.

It seemed that the man across the street moved, maybe, a spilt second before his shirtfront blossomed red and he dropped to his knees, then onto his face, his hand on the gun that had not cleared his holster.

Pony ears were ringing from the single shot and he smelled the familiar smell of gunpowder. The smell that would bring back this memory as long as he lived. From then on he would connect it with death.

The footsteps stopped beside him and Pony looked up into the terrible, beautiful face of a fallen angel. The dark eyes contemplated him without interest.

Pony suddenly saw himself. Saw himself as small, insignificant, ignorant, knowing no more of reality than a prairie dog knew of mathematics. Saw that he would live and die and leave no trace, that there was a universe he could not imagine, must less comprehend. The world shifted, leaving him queasy, off-balance, trying to hang onto the shreds of what he thought he knew. He tried to see past the dark mirrors, but the only reflection he saw was his own.

The light footsteps went up the stairs, back into the saloon, but Pony dropped his head on his knees and cried.

"Pony!" someone was shaking his shoulder, and Pony wiped his face on his sleeve and tried to look up. It seemed like hours had passed since the gunfight, though he knew it was only a few minutes.

"You okay, Pony?" Little John asked worriedly. "You didn't get hit by a stray bullet or nothin'?"

How the hell could I have been hit by a stray bullet? Pony thought in sudden anger, there was only one shot fired and it hit its target.

But there was no sense taking it out on Little John, who was holding out a hand to help him up.

The town sprang back to life, the noise came back, and the sun was shinning brightly. A couple of men began to drag off the body.

"Did you see the gunfight?" Two-Bits ran up to them.

"See it?" Little John said, jerking a thumb toward Pony. "He was right in the middle of it."

"Glory!" Two-Bits studied the dust where Pony had been sitting. "That was a front row seat! That was the Dark Prince, wasn't it? What'd he look like up close?"

"He was younger than I thought he'd be" Little John spoke up, when Pony remained silent. "Looked twenty-four, twenty-five."

"He was older than anybody." Pony said suddenly. "Older than anybody at all."

Two-Bits and Little John looked at him, puzzled, then Two-Bits went on: "This is some town, ain't it boys? Look what I won"

Two-Bits held out some dollar bills and silver coins. "Thirty dollars! Playin' poker! Of course, I had to promise to come back tomorrow and give 'em a chance to win it back. Thirty bucks!"

Pony eyes were huge. He'd never seen more than five dollars all together at once. Two-Bits was rich!

"And guess what else I heard? Cole Younger is in town! Maybe some of his brothers. If this ain't the wildest, woolliest town in the West!"

"Yeah" Pony said, "We met him. What's so special about him?"

"Cole Younger? You met him? Hell, turn my back on you two for an hour or so and you're hanging with gunfighters and outlaws! Cole Younger is one of the most bloodthirsty fiends in the country. He rode with Bloody Bill Anderson and Quantrill in the War, took part in the Lawrence Kansas massacre. They say he'd as shoot you as look at you. Of course, nowadays, he's trying to pass himself off as a cattleman."

Pony tried to fit this description on the big, genial, young gentleman who had given them a nickel for candy.

"You're making that up. He's nice."

"Ask around. Hell, even out in our neck of the woods people have heard of Cole Younger." Two-Bits paused. "You two want to get something to eat before we head back? I'm sick of my own cookin'"

Pony was suddenly so tired. It was more than he could take in, death striding in beauty, kind gestures masking a killer.

Little John said "Yeah"

Pony said "I ain't hungry. I'm going to go take a bath."

Later, at camp, Darry noticed that Pony looked a little peaked.

"You feelin' okay, kid?"

Pony watched as Soda rolled up his best shirt, a dusty-red gingham, and his best wool trousers. Soda was going to take his bath first thing. _"Grow you up for a dollar."_ Oh God.

He finally realized Darry had said something to him.

"It's not like I thought it was."

"What?"

"Anything."

Darry shook his head. He'd never understand this brother, if they both lived past one hundred.

He turned as Soda and Pistol galloped off toward town, whooping as they went.

_That one_, he thought, that one I understand.


	10. Chapter 10

The Drive North Chapter 10 The Drive North Chapter 10

By Jess MacIntoch

Outsiders AU Old West

Rated T

Outsiders and other Hinton characters, though nobody recognized the one in the last chapter. S.E. Hinton owns these charaters, and I am not making any money from this.

"Whoa, girls, look just what trotted in."

"All glossy and shiny from the bath house."

"Young studs, and ladies, I do mean _young._"

"I heard there was a trail herd outside of town. Lordy, I can see why they call 'em cow_boys__."_

"I got dibs on the palomino."

"Awww, Lydia"

"Let her have him. Two years from now she'll be more concerned with the color of their money instead of the color of their hair."

"You got to admit, though, that is one hell of a good-lookin' young-un"

Pistol and Soda leaned on the bar and sipped at their drinks. Pistol trying not to take too big a sip of rot-gut and choke, and Soda cheerfully gulping a beer. Pistol let out a breath and tried to seem nonchalant. After all, he had been in a whorehouse a few times, and this was Soda's first time, and it irritated him that he himself was nervous and here was ol' Soda, just looking around, calm as could be.

Pistol smoothed down his mustache, an unconscious habit since he had grown it. He felt it made him look older, more manly.

Soda's hat hung by its leather strings, his dark gold hair still a little damp from the bath, a new red bandana around his neck to match the faded red checks of his gingham shirt.

"So, do we get to pick one or—"

"Hey there cowboy. Buy a lady a drink?"

"Sure"

Soda didn't stammer or leer foolishly or turn beet red, like Pistol did the first time he was approached. Pistol wished sourly he could hate his pard, but with Soda Curtis that was impossible. He did note, however, that the middle Curtis brother did flush a little under his tan; but it only made him better looking, so Pistol couldn't gloat about that.

But the next moment a bright-eyed blond took his arm and Pistol ordered two more shots of whiskey, and forgot all his grievances against his best friend.

"What would you like, ma'm?"

Lydia knew she was supposed to reply "Champagne" to get the boy to shell out for the over-priced drink, but there was something so sweet in those dark eyes she said "Beer, please."

Soda ordered, then turned to her again. The purity of her skin was the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen, until he looked down the front of her low-cut red dress.

Lydia watched his eyes get darker, and saw him swallow hard.

"My name is Lydia"

"Soda"

She put a light hand on his arm, and felt him tremble.

"I know a place where we can...talk more private."

Soda downed his beer, and nodded. And followed her.

Soda lay panting, trying to get the pounding of his heart under control.

He had thought he knew something about what was going to happen, after all, he'd been waking up with an itch to scratch for a few years now. But it turned out he knew nothing.

That another human being could do...that for him. It was like comparing a candle to the blaze of a noon-day sun. He tried to get the scattered remnants of his mind back, tried, even, to make since of what exactly had happened, but everything but the unexpected ecstasy was a blur. He had tried, at the time, to remember Darry's instructions and Pistol's advice, but something had over-come his thought process... he hoped she didn't figure out it was his first time, but didn't much care.

"Sugar" Lydia turned, propped on one elbow, stroking his cheek "You know, in a couple of years you're going to be the best-looking man in Texas."

She smiled, tenderly. The boy was so sweet—trying to be mannerly, apparently thinking if she was naked, (a favor she did not grant to all her customers) he should be, too; his desire to please her and his over-whelming need brought an unaccustomed lump to her throat.

Sweet child, she thought. She was all of three years older than he was, and she thought: Sweet child.

"Surely someone has told you that." She added, when Soda remained silent.

"Well, yeah, but it just never mattered before."

It does now, he thought, if it makes you like me more.

"I mean, my older brother is a top hand, but he worked hard to get there, and my little brother is smart, but he basically educated himself. Me, I was just born this way. Didn't do anything to earn it."

Lydia leaned over and gave him a soft kiss on the lips.

Soda swallowed and said "When I come back this way, I'm gonna be rich. I ain't just a drover, I'm part owner of the herd. When we get to Abilene, I'm gonna have a lot of money. "

He wondered why he had never through of this before.

"Well, I sure hope you remember to look me up."

Soda sat up, totally unembarrassed by his nakedness.

"Maybe we could get married."

To have this every night, to wake up next to the most beautiful thing on earth—that's why people got married, he thought, it has nothing to do with breeding kids. He was so dizzy with love that his eyes began to water.

"Well, we can think about that when the time comes." She kissed him again, on the nose, and on the lips, and nibbled his ear lobe just a little.

"A girl could sure get used to a man like you."

Soda started to reach for her again, but she smiled sadly.

"I got to get back to work, honey. Buck-Tooth Sally saw me come upstairs with you, she'll be expecting me back in the bar."

Soda grabbed his pants and dug around in the pockets. He thrust some bills at her. Half his wages so far, twenty-five dollars.

"Wait for me. I can go get a loan on my next paycheck." He dressed hurriedly, tucking in his shirt and forgetting his new bandana. He pulled on his boots before she could even rise.

"Wait for me" He pleaded. "I'll be right back."

She watched as he ran out of her room, then got up to put her dress back on, re-do her hair.

"Sweet child."

Soda finally found Two-Bits in a poker game, and got the loan, more because Two-Bits was distracted and distraught over the way the cards were turning than any interest in Soda's incoherent explanation.

Soda calmed him self in front of the whorehouse door, smoothing his hair down, catching his breath. He didn't want to go charging into her room like a bull on the loose.

He took a breath and went in, intending to tell Buck-Tooth Sally why he was going back upstairs, show her the money if necessary.

But Lydia was at the bar, between two tall cowboys.

Soda's vision turned red and misty and for the first time in his life he felt a blazing rage. He felt a killing rage. He even fumbled at the gun in his holster for a moment.

His vision cleared for a moment, and he saw that Tim Sheppard was one of the cowboys.

She was looking up at the other one, hand toying with his shirt button, and he heard her say:

"A girl could get used to a man like you.

It was his brother, Darry.


	11. Chapter 11

The Drive North Chapter 11

By Jess MacIntosh

The Outsiders AU Old West

The Outsiders and other S.E. Hinton characters

Rated K

Phillipe Sheppard was never so glad to be out of a town in his life. Then, he'd never seen a town rob a bunch of cowhands of their minds before. The whole bunch was haywire. If he didn't know better, he'd think they'd all gotten into loco weed instead of whiskey.

Tim and Darry were slinking around looking like they were either guilty of something horrendous, or trying not to laugh when they caught each other's eyes. Two-bit had become terrified of the town and Phillipe had to drag him back there to buy the supplies.

The cook had practically hid behind his boss, the wagons, the barrels the entire time.

Curly was still sick three days after, a severe case of alcohol poisoning, his grandfather suspected. Phillipe hadn't been able to find a secure way to send Angelique home, and she was smirking no matter how many hours he ordered her to spend with the herd. Pony Curtis was wandering around like he'd been slugged with a two-by-four. Even Soda's bright light was dimmed. Pistol seemed not too worse for wear, just hung-over and broke like he was supposed to be, but his best friend's sad silence was making his bad temper worse.

Only Little John Cade seemed unaffected. And White Snake, who had too much sense to go into a town where he'd be lucky to escape lynching.

And to top it all off, there wasn't a cowhand worth hiring in the entire town, which seemed to Phillipe Sheppard to be made up entirely of gunfighters, gamblers, outlaws and low-life. Everybody had their own get-rich-quick scheme in the works, and honest hard work was the last thing on their minds.

Each day further from Fort Worth was a blessing.

Tim Sheppard and Darry Curtis couldn't believe they had robbed a poker game. Armed robbery! Pulled their bandanas over their faces and walked in with guns drawn, barking orders and threats like they imaged real robbers doing.

Alternately scared they were going to shoot somebody, be shot themselves, or burst out laughing, they had managed to pull off their heist and get the hell out of there, but expected retribution for days.

All because Two-Bits Mathews had let a bunch of yahoos con him into thinking he was the best poker player north of the Rio Grande, and took him for all the supply money.

Knowing the Boss would kill him, or fire him, and not trusting a new cook to be as good as the one they had, the older hands had come up with a plan, although Two-Bits almost gave them away with his outrageous behavior. He had almost had to be dragged back to town, whimpering and cowering, even though both Darry and Tim assured him that nothing could connect him to the robbery.

All three breathed easier, too, the further away from Fort Worth they got.

Curly was morose because he had drunk himself into a stupor, trying to get up the courage to visit a whore house, and he was pretty sure he never made it, though his pockets were empty when he had sobered up enough to check them. He lay in an alley, too sick to get up, for a day and half before Tim came looking for him.

Angelique didn't care if she ever saw a town again, as long as she didn't have to go home.

Pony Curtis's whole world was turned upside town, he was still trying to make sense of what he had seen, but couldn't put his questions into words, even for Soda, who would always listen.

And Soda was too busy with his own questions to listen anyway. He couldn't stop thinking about what had occurred, and what he should do about it.

He'd acted like a fool, he decided.

Soda was chasing a stray cow, slowly, since the critter had managed to make it to high rocky ground, and Soda was always mindful of his horses' feet.

Talking marriage like a greenhorn. Soda snorted in much the same manner as his horse just did. Yep, take her home to the ranch and leave her there while he went out on the trail. That was just what a girl like that wanted. Some dumb drover and a place out in the middle of nowhere. Probably had saved all her life to get out of a place like that, to somewhere where things were happening, and here he was, asking her to go cook and wash clothes and sit waiting for him to come back and...

What a fool, thinking she could love him. Worse, thinking he loved her—he didn't know who the hell she was, where she came from, how she came to be doing what she was doing and for a minute there he was ready to shoot his own brother over her.

There had to be somewhere in-between, a feeling you could have for girls like that——something between being grass-green in love, and wanting to shoot your brother over them, and just using them. Soda couldn't imagine being with one without liking her, or you might just as well as scratch the itch yourself.

Soda shuddered. He had never felt absolute rage before, and he had not liked it a bit. How the hell did Pistol stay so mad all the time? It was exhausting.

Soda got off his horse. The ground was steep and rough, and Flame's shoes were new and a little short. He could hear the cow bawling the other side of the ridge. Probably stuck it's foot in some rocky crevice or something—damn dumb cattle, almost as stupid as the drovers pushing them along.

He draped Flame's reins over a stubby bush and took the rope from his saddle. He climbed up over the ridge and ambled down a few feet, turned a corner, and stared down the barrel of a Colt .45.


	12. Chapter 12

The Drive North Chapter 12 The Drive North Chapter 12

Soda froze. Nobody had ever pointed a gun at him before, and he wasn't quite sure what manners were required of him.

"Howdy" he said finally, for lack of anything else to say.

The tall, bearded, scruffy-looking man slowly let the hammer of his pistol down, and re-holstered it.

"Sorry pard" He replied. "There's just no tellin' who you might run into out here."

"You gonna shoot him or what?" There was another tall, bearded man stretched out by the remains of a campfire. Soda could see he was sweating more than the heat of the day called for, could see the blood-soaked bandage wrapped around his leg just above his knee.

"Not, I reckon. Just a cowpoke" The first man turned back to Soda.

"You looking for a cow?"

He jerked his thumb to the right, and Soda saw his stray, trussed up and worn out from bawling.

"Yep. That's one of our herd."

"Well, damn. We've been short of rations for a while and thought maybe God was looking out for us."

"God quit lookin' out for us a long time ago." The man by the campfire groaned. "Just shoot the kid and leave me and get the hell out of here."

"Naw, I ain't gonna leave you. I might shoot you, though, if you can't quit bellyachin'. I ain't gonna shoot an honest cowpoke who's just doing his job."

He turned to Soda, and stuck out his hand. For some reason, he reminded Soda of a friendly lion.

"Texas...Rogers."

"Soda Curtis" Soda answered, shaking the proffered hand. He'd noticed the hesitation about the last name, but ignored it.

Even back in Clearwater a man's business was his own.

"That's my brother Mason. I had to shoot him a while back to make him quit naggin' at me, but it turns out it only made things worse."

Soda cocked his head, not sure whether to believe that, or not.

"Well, let's go get your cow."

"Damnit, Texas, shoot him, who knows who he's going to be tellin'. And you need to be eatin' somethin' or you're goin' to drop in your tracks"

"Don't mind him" Texas said as they ambled toward the cow. "He's got the disposition of a rattler with a toothache on a good day, and he ain't had a good day in a while."

The stranger moved over the rough ground with a lanky grace and Soda realized the men were young, not much older than Darry.

"You gotta brother?" Texas knelt next to the cow, and sliced through the ropes holding it with a sharp Bowie knife. Not a practical hunting knife, a weapon kind of knife, the kind White Snake carried.

"Two" Soda answered. "One older, one younger."

"Bet the younger one is a real pain in the ass." Mason said. They were closer to him now, and Soda could see he was gray-faced and bright-eyed with fever.

"No" Soda said, mentally hugging Pony and hoping he lived to see him again. "He's good."

"The older one's a bossy ol' bitch, ain't he? Always gripin' at you for the hell of it?"

"No" Soda said again, wishing Darry was here to rescue him, not doubting for a second he could. "He's good."

"Huh" both the "Rogers" brothers scoffed at once.

The cow scrambled to its feet, and trotted off in the direction of the herd.

"Well, I best be gettin' back to the herd." Soda said, trying to sound casual. "We got a strict ol cuss of a trail boss."

"Damnit, Tex, you don't shoot him I will." Mason tried to reach for his rifle, but fell back with a groan.

"Only shootin' goin' to happen is me pluggin' your sorry ass. "

Texas turned to Soda. "Sorry, he ain't usually this blood-thirsty, but he's out of his head with fever. Of course, you'd have to know him pretty well to tell the difference."

"I could bring you some grub." Soda said suddenly. "Maybe some

medicine. We should have something, nobody's been sick yet, 'cept Curly, and that was rot-gut whiskey."

"Gawd, I could use some whiskey right now."

"Damnit, brother, you are a bitchin' sonofabitch when you're hurtin'."

Texas turned to Soda.

"I'd be much obliged if you could help us out." He dropped his voice. "That wound is gettin' downright angry lookin', and like I said, we been short of rations for a while. A little food and rest would fix him up fine. And don't take him serious about shootin' anybody. You'd have to really piss him off to cause that."

Soda didn't find that statement too reassuring, but he watched as Tex dropped beside his brother and held a canteen to his lips. Tex loosened the bandage and took a look.

"All this whinnin' around for this little scratch." He said, but Soda had noticed him getting pale. Mason just lay back and closed his eyes. Texas poured a little water on his bandana and mopped his brother's face.

"I'll be back." Soda said, feeling like he'd promised to return to a lion's den. Texas looked up at him.

"This evenin', I'll be back."


	13. Chapter 13

The Drive North Chapter 13

by Jess MacIntosh

Any character you recognize belongs to S.E. Hinton

I am not making any money from this.

Pony was explaining the nuances of knighthood to Johnnycake. Two-bits was getting supper ready, and really didn't like anyone underfoot while he worked, so they stood at the other end of the chuck wagon, sipping coffee.

Johnnycake was always interested in whatever Pony had to say, whether it was about the different horses' personalities, or Robin Hood. It was a relief to Pony, having someone to talk to. Even Soda's eyes started to glaze over if he wanted to speculate on dragons or such.

"Knights, huh? Johnny asked. "Vows of honor and all? Reminds me of White Snake."

Pony nearly dropped his coffee. He must not have done a good job of explaining if Johnny thought White Snake was close to being a knight.

Maybe it showed on his face, because Johnny said defensively:

"He's a warrior. He does it for the glory."

"Well, hell, Johnnycake, you know a lot of soldiers. The sheriff, even the Boss."

"They're soldiers, not warriors. Soldiers fight because they're told to. Warriors fight because that's what they do. You know, nobody, not even the chiefs, makes the braves go into battle. They do it for the honor. White Snake told me they sometimes ride into a fight just to touch the enemy with their coup sticks. Not to kill. Not to wound. Just to prove they're the best warriors. That is fighting for just the glory of it."

Both of them turned toward a shrill hawk cry coming from the east. Both of them knew it was White Snake.

"That's a 'somebody's comin'' call," Johnny said. "Not a danger warning."

The Boss and Darry strolled up to pour themselves a cup of coffee, too.

"Strangers comin' in," said the Boss. "At least we'll have something new to chew on this evenin'"

It was turning out that Pistol was right—the trail could get down right boring. Visitors would be a treat.

They all watched as two riders trotted toward the camp, then settled into a walk, then pulled up in front of the wagon.

"Evenin'" said the older one, tipping his hat. "Name's Rogers. Mason Rogers. Me and my brother here was wonderin' if you could use a couple of extra hands. If not, we'd sure appreciate some coffee."

Phillippe looked them over. The older one was maybe twenty-five, the younger three, four years younger. Tall, coyote lean, broad shouldered, clean-shaven, good-looking young fellers. And tough.

He glanced around and noticed that not one of his crew had taken note of the strangers at all.

They were all staring at the strangers' horses.

Phillippe himself had to pause to take a look. Tall horses, long-legged and long-backed, with deep chests for heart and lungs, finely-drawn, intelligent heads set on arched necks, eyes alert, ears pricked. One was black with a narrow blaze, one dark red with a blond mane and tail. Racing horses, Phillippe knew, though he'd never seen their like before. Not working horses.

"Well," he said, "You have any experience with cattle?"

"No sir," the younger one answered with a grin. "We're Missouri farm boys. But we learn fast, and I imagine we can out-ride any drover you got."

"One of them is a Commanche."

"Well," the young man said affably "We can out ride anyone except the Commanche. We're used to hard work, get along with most people, don't mind taking orders."

"That's news to me." said Mason.

"Don't mind taking orders from someone who knows what they're talking about."

Mason scowled.

"Well, get down off your horses and have some supper. We'll palaver about this over some food and coffee. Pony," the Boss said "take these hombres' horses and get them un-tacked and hobbled. Reckon they could use a little respite, too."

They swung down, and the younger one searched Pony's face for moment before he handed him the reins.

"Name's Shadow. The horse's name" he corrected as Pony finally realized there were humans connected to these improbable steeds. "My name's Texas."

Pony looked up into twinkling golden eyes, and he grinned. "I'll take good care of him, Mr. Texas."

''Tex'll do me fine. I know they seem a mite scrawny, but these horses ain't used to this rough country. They're damn fine animals, but I have to admit they ain't easy keepers."

"They're..." Pony hunted for a word, a word out of a book for these horses who had to be out of a book. "They're... _magnificent._"

Tex touched the brim of his hat. "That they are, kid. That they are."

The Boss noticed Mason had a bit of a limp, and Tex said quickly "Had to shoot him. Handed me some dirty dishwater claiming it was coffee. I'm easy going about most things, but I get pretty serious about my coffee."

"You'll like ours." The Boss replied. "You can stand a spoon in it."

Well, he thought, that's where the food and medicine Soda was smuggling out of here went.

He hadn't said anything at the time; they had plenty of rations and nobody had gotten sick; just the regular little injuries that happened on a drive—Curly broke his little finger, Pistol cracked his tailbone when his horse spun out from under him, Darry got a bad rope-burn.

Phillippe thought maybe Soda had himself a Indian gal up in the hills, something like that. He was fond of the kid, though some of his antics made his head ache.

Would be just like Soda, he thought, helping out God-knows-who, if he found people in trouble.

Phillippe Sheppard ended up hiring the Rogers brothers and had no reason to regret it. They were hard workers, and had no problem taking orders from the younger Tim and Darry.

And they had the sense to use second-string horses, especially on rough ground, and spare their own when they could.

The way they talked to each other, though, shocked the other sets of siblings on the drive. Tim valued the adoration and hero-worship of his little brother and sister too much to be actively mean to them—he settled for an indifferent facade that fooled everyone but his grandfather.

The Curtis brothers rarely exchanged a cross word among themselves, and Soda didn't hesitate to hug either Darry or Pony if he felt like it, while Darry expressed affection by knocking off hats and ruffling hair in an absent-minded way. Pony was happy with either.

The Rogers brothers, however, seldom spoke to each other without insults and threats. Mason had a sharp tongue that was funny to everyone except the person on the receiving end of it—though it was seldom used on anyone except his brother.

Tex retaliated with exaggerated threats and obviously fictional stories of Mason's incompetence that had everyone laughing, and wondering how he didn't cringe at the heated glares Mason sent his way.

It was the Boss who noticed they always sat across from each other in camp, not to put distance between them, but so each had a view of what was behind the other's back. They never took the same night shift, so one could sleep well while the other was on guard.

He also noticed the way they constantly scanned the horizon, always on the look out for something—

Putting that together with their outlandish horses, which were only good for out-running other horses, the custom gun-belts they wore set precisely on their hips, the quick and accurate way they had sized up the rest of the crew, Phillippe knew he had hired some very dangerous men.

He was more glad than worried, if what White Snake said about the trail ahead was true.


	14. Chapter 14

The Drive North Chapter 14

By Jess MacIntosh

S.E. Hinton owns any character you recognize and I am not making any money from this.

Phillippe stood sipping the morning brew and watching Tex help Angelique saddle her horse.

A month ago, hell, a week ago, he thought, she'd a shot anyone who suggested she needed help with her horse. But here she was, giggling and smiling at some rigmarole that farm boy was spouting.

"You don't need to worry,"

Philippe started when he realized Mason was standing next to him. Damn, those Rogers boys could move quiet when they were of a mind to.

"He won't hurt that little girl. In any way."

"Hell, I was thinkin' on asking him to come live with us. This is the first time I've seen her acting like a human being."

"Well, maybe..." Mason drawled thoughtfully, "when she was a little thing she thought the boys were getting a lot more attention. Maybe she thought acting like a boy would get her some notice, too. And now she's got someone paying attention to her because she _is_ a girl. So she's more inclined to act like one."

Phillippe nodded. That made sense. "Your brother sure is a lively cuss, ain't he?"

Mason snorted. "I guess you could call it that."

Tex had made close friends with everyone on the trail in a matter of days. He rode on the spare wagon with Johnnycake and swapped mule stories—he'd grown up facing the backend of a mule, he said, was plowing by the time he could first reach the handles.

He could tease Pistol out of a dark mood, mostly commenting on his mustache. "Squeeze them rats out of your nose, Pistol. No use telling me they ain't up there, I see their tails hanging out."

He took roping lessons from Curly, herding lessons from Tim and Darry, let Pony ride his horse one day. Pony had been awed to muteness by the incredible power he had felt behind that light bit.

"Went all the way to Kentucky to get our horses." Tex had told him. "Bred to race. Mine used to fox hunt, too."

Pony had two older brothers and a few weeks on the trail, so he was always wary of someone trying to put something over on him.

"How can you train a horse to hunt foxes?" He'd asked skeptically.

When Tex got his breath back from laughing he'd said: "No, you train hound dogs to chase the foxes. Then you train the horses to follow the hounds. Full out gallop, jumping over anything that gets in their way. It is the most damn fun you can have."

One evening they had all been startled by the war cries of Indians—Tim had been on his feet with his gun out when White Snake and Tex came stampeding through the camp; Tex stripped to the waist and wearing war paint, riding bareback, had jumped his large animal over the supply wagon. White Snake had "counted coup" by touching his coup stickt to the top of Tim's head. The war whoops had faded as they galloped off.

Mason hadn't even looked up.

"I figured something like that was going to happen when I noticed them two gettin' thick. " He had commented. "I apologize for my brother. He never did have a lick of sense. If you want me to shoot him, I'll do it. No sense in anyone else wasting a bullet."

Everyone else had been laughing by then, except Tim, who found nothing humorous in anything White Snake did.

Now, standing next to the Boss, Mason said, "You notice how your good cook got even better after Tex started telling him he's the best he's ever come across? Well, that's Texas for you. He always sees people the way they are and the way he wants them to be. Both at once. I swear, even with all the renegades and scoundrels we've come across, he never met a man he didn't like."

"How does he see you?"

Mason grinned a little bit. "He sees me as the bossy, know-it-all big brother who'd shoot him before he'd let anyone else do it. That's who I am, and who he needs me to be."

"Boss! Boss!"

Both men looked up quickly as Soda galloped full speed into camp, pulled up and spun around just in time to miss the campfire.

"Gun shots ahead! Lots of them! Tim and Darry are already headed that way. Pony!" He yelled, "You stay in camp!"

"You, too, Angel!" the Boss shouted.

Phillippe yanked his horse loose from the picket line. Even with the time it took the Rogers brothers to saddle up, they quickly over-took both Soda and the Boss, leaving them dropped-jawed in their dust.

The riders passed the herd, the cows wandering and grazing now that their drovers were gone. Even Curly had deserted them.

They could hear the gunshots now, the volleys and returns reminding Phillippe of old battles, Commanche and Mexican. He pulled up at the top of a slight ridge, holding up a hand to stop Soda, too.

They surveyed the scene below them, before racing down the slope to join the others.


End file.
